


Under Construction

by nocturnias



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Post Reichenbach, Romantic Friendship, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:24:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnias/pseuds/nocturnias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Will it change your life if I change my mind?" A different take on a pregnant Molly fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Construction

**Author's Note:**

> Not my usual fare but it wouldn’t leave my head. Tad bit OOC but not terribly so. 
> 
> I’m sherlolly on Tumblr and am on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/Nocturnias
> 
> A huge thank you to my muse and story support, CumberChelz! I love you, sweetie!

Molly Hooper is many things.

She’s smart, loyal, trustworthy, devoted.  She’s friendly, quiet, controlled, and practical as well. She is also romantic, sentimental, and has a fondness for kittens, fuzzy clothes, and the color pink.

Above and along with all these things, though, Molly Hooper is by and large quite realistic. Hopeful, yes. An optimist: certainly. But a realist.

Molly Hooper is many things.

And now, thanks to a one-off with Sherlock Holmes the night of the day that she saved his life, she can add pregnant to that list.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She doesn’t have any way of letting him know. She’s not entirely sure she wants to. She knows what she is to him, and what she isn’t. And while there is no longer any doubt in her mind that she matters, she knows it’s not the way she wants to matter.

It will kill her, if she lets it. And she might have done anyway. But now there’s someone else to consider. Someone whose heart beats because of hers. That sort of life event will change the way a woman looks at things. It’s changed the way she looks at things.

Which is why, after a few days of deliberation and many tears, she texts Mycroft Holmes.

He listens in silence, and whether that’s out of shock, politeness, or both, she can’t say. When she’s finished he looks her over for a few seconds with that hawk-like gaze he shares with Sherlock.

“I will, of course, assist you in any way possible, Doctor Hooper.”

She knew he’d say that. Mycroft Holmes is many things, too. One of them is responsible. He carries that weight willingly, just as Molly does. It’s something she has in common with him. That and an unspoken, deep love for Sherlock.

When she tells him what she wants, he blinks in surprise. She’s caught him off guard, Molly Hooper has. He understands her reasoning, of course. It’s smart and quite commendable. Still, a nagging little part of him doesn’t like it. That doesn’t matter, of course. He doesn’t like all sorts of things. Doesn’t make them any less true.

So Mycroft only says: “Of course, Doctor Hooper. I’ll begin the preparations at once.”

She nods, thanks him quietly (and a little shyly: for all her newfound strength she is still Molly) and leaves. He watches her go with shadowed eyes and a vaguely-only vaguely-troubled heart.

__________________________________________________________________________

He’s back, and it feels so good.

He’s finished it all, given countless tedious statements to Lestrade, sneered at Donovan and Anderson, been hugged by Mrs. Hudson to within an inch of his life. He’s even met this Mary that John has become so smitten with. Not by choice, exactly: John was having a cuddle with her on the sofa when Sherlock made his grand re-entry at 221B.

There had been disbelief, a swift, strong, angry punch to his jaw, and a hug so tight he thought John must’ve strained something. He’s missed all this so terribly much.

He relates the story to John after things have calmed down a bit. When it’s all over John and Mary both shake their heads in amazement.

“Molly. My God. And all this time she’s never said a word. She saved you and I didn’t know it. Well. I’ve got to thank her, that’s for certain,” John says. “Shall we go to Bart’s and then let the rest of the world in on things?”

Sherlock nods. Molly. She’ll be glad to see him. And he… won’t be displeased to see her, to be honest. He owes her more than he’s given her in the past. He owes her so much.

He knows something is wrong as soon as they step into the morgue. Her scent, her coat: nothing that says “Molly Hooper” is there. Instead there is a pleasant young man whose brows draw together at their obvious confusion. “May I help you?”

“We’re looking for Molly Hooper,” John says, because Sherlock has apparently been robbed of speech.

He nods. “She doesn’t work here anymore Can I help you? I’m her replacement until someone can fill the position permanently.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up and he levels cold blue eyes at this man, this man who is in Molly’s morgue, his morgue. “As of when?” He asks the man.

“She resigned about 2 weeks ago,” he tells them.

John frowns. Sherlock… almost frowns. “Any idea where she went?” John asks.

The man shakes his head. “No. Not even sure why she left. Say, aren’t you Sherlock Holmes? Everyone’s been talking about how you’re back. It’s wonderful to meet you,” the man says, extending his hand.

Sherlock turns and sweeps out of the morgue. John mutters an apology, quickly introduces himself, shakes the man’s hand, and hurries after.

Sherlock has already whipped out his mobile and called Molly. He gets a recording saying the number is no longer in service. John misses this bit, but when he runs after Sherlock he can tell something is very not good.

“What’s going on?” He asks.

Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, doesn’t have an answer.

They go to Molly’s flat next. Sherlock can tell from the outside that she’s gone. He picks the lock, over John’s mild protests, and they go inside.

The flat is empty. Not just empty: barren. No furniture, no cat, everything has been cleaned and scrubbed within an inch of its life. There is no trace of his pathologist anywhere. No cheerful drapes, no atrocious jumpers. It is as though Molly Hooper never existed.

“What the hell’s happened, Sherlock?” John asks, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “I know I haven’t seen her in a few months but when I’d phone her, she never let on anything about…this.

Sherlock doesn’t answer. He’s thinking. He doesn’t know what’s going on. But he knows someone who probably does.

“There’s something I need to do,” he says in a low, rough voice. He heads for the door without a backward glance.

John knows that tone. He doesn’t ask if there’s anything he can do to help.

Mycroft is sitting at his desk, writing notes, as Sherlock enters. He looks up. “Well, little brother. I wondered when you’d get around to stopping by.”

“Where is she?” Sherlock asks flatly.

“I’m afraid I don’t know whom you’re referring to,” Mycroft says smoothly, and Sherlock scowls.

“You know exactly who I’m referring to. Where is she?”

“You aren’t asking the right questions, Sherlock,” Mycroft says silkily.

Sherlock sighs. Fine. He’ll play Mycroft’s little game for a moment. “When did she leave?”

“She hasn’t. Not yet.”

He frowns at this. “Why did she leave Bart’s? Why is her flat empty?”

“Because she **is** leaving. Rather soon.”

“Why?” Sherlock demands.

Mycroft stares at him, as though he’s trying to figure out why Sherlock is so agitated.

Sherlock throws up a hand in disgust. If she’s not left London yet, he can find her. He turns to leave.

He’s halfway to the door when Mycroft drops the shoe. “She is carrying your child, Sherlock.”

Time stops and Sherlock stops and everything in the universe simply stops. There is just him and Mycroft and this moment that is so tremendous that nothing can continue yet.

He understands now why ordinary people say “What?”. It’s because they can’t quite believe what was just said to them.

Sherlock Holmes isn’t ordinary. He doesn’t say “What?”. But his eyes say it for him and he goes pale as he does the math.

“She is 6 months and 3 days along, as I’m sure you’ve already calculated,” Mycroft says quietly.

Sherlock clears his throat. “Where is she, Mycroft?”

Mycroft weighs him, assesses him. Then he answers the question.

As Sherlock turns again to leave Mycroft drops the other shoe. “She’s moving to America. She wanted you to know. And she said to tell you… she’ll miss you.”

Sherlock looks back at Mycroft. “When is her flight?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Molly is looking out the window of her hotel room when Sherlock knocks on her door.

She knows it’s him. She saw him on the news. She knew he’d look for her, though she’s surprised it was this fast. Then again, maybe she shouldn’t be.

She lets him in without a word. She closes and locks the door behind him, and turns to him and they stare at each other.

Sherlock’s gaze goes to her stomach. It is quite obvious that she’s 6 months and 3 days pregnant.  Her body looks as though it is about to burst from the life inside her eager to leave and make its presence known. She looks tired and wistful and something he can’t explain.

And beautiful. All that rubbish about the glow of motherhood is apparently not rubbish. Despite her obvious emotional upheaval, Molly is beautiful. She was beautiful already, objectively speaking (and not that he’d noticed, of course), but now she is radiant.

He wants to ask her questions, but he already knows the answers to most of them. So he settles on one that he does not.

“Were you ever going to see me again?”

She looks away, and he knows and it **_hurts._**  It’s entirely understandable and completely intelligent, but it hurts nonetheless. Well. He’s hurt her more than a few times. Fair is fair, he supposes.

And now he’s here and she’s here and their child is waiting in the wings.

Sherlock moves carefully past her to look out the window. He knows exactly what he’ll see but he needs a moment to collect his thoughts. He goes inside his Mind Palace, all the way up into the attic, an area that doesn’t usually see much visitation from him. The attic is where he tries to keep his feelings, his sentiment.

A few doors are open: have been open since John. Near the end of the hall is a white wooden door. It is not fully open, but it is ajar. Has been for well over a year. It is where he keeps Molly Hooper in his mind. He pushes on it and it swings open with only a small creak.

When he comes back out he leaves the door open a little wider than before. He opens his eyes and turns back to Molly, who has been sitting quietly on the edge of the bed waiting.

He takes a deep breath. “All right. We’ll get married.”

Molly’s mouth gapes open. “What?”

He waves a hand in the air. “We’ll get married. John wants to move into the basement flat with his girlfriend. We can convert his room into a nursery and move all the scientific equipment into the spare bedroom. Make a proper lab of sorts. I’d prefer a small wedding at Baker Street but you can invite your family, of course. I suppose you’ll want a proper dress and we’ll need some rings: I might get Mycroft to help with this as much as I loathe the idea, John, too: I’m sure he knows how all this is supposed to go…”

“Sherlock, why on Earth do you want us to get married?” Molly asks.

He blinks in surprise. “It’s what people do, don’t they? If they’re having a child together? Get married?”

“Sometimes, yes. Usually if they’re in love. Sherlock… I’m not going to marry you.”

He stares at her. Of all the things he could have ever imagined Molly Hooper would say, this was not one of them.  And he doesn’t care at that moment if he’s ordinary or not. “What?”

“I’m not marrying you. I’m going to America to live.”

“I don’t understand,” he says, frowning. “You are in love with me, you are carrying my child, yet you say you don’t want to marry me. Explain to me how that makes sense.”

“You don’t love me. This baby wasn’t planned for. It’s… I know you mean well but you’re only offering out of a sense of obligation. You don’t owe me anything for saving your life, Sherlock. You certainly don’t need to tie yourself to a wife and child, neither of which you really want.”

He stares at her. He doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s for the best,” she says quietly.

“So that’s it? You’re just going to leave? Leave Bart’s, leave England, leave (he almost says “me”) all of us?”

“I can start over in America. New country, new job: a whole new life.”

He wants to say something: it’s right there, just on the tip of his tongue. Only he doesn’t know what it is.

“I’ll send you a copy of the birth certificate,” Molly says. She moves to the door as though she expects him to leave. Expects him to simply walk out and let that be the end of it.

Everyone always has an air about them when it comes to him. An air of  ‘Oh, well, what can you expect from Sherlock?’

As though he is incapable of changing.

As though all he does is disappoint everyone, and they are resigned to it.

And they don’t think he cares.

He doesn’t leave.

“No,” he tells her. “I’m not leaving and neither are you.”

She sighs. “Sherlock-”

“I want you to stay.”

His admission surprises her. He can tell. “Why?” She asks. “You don’t… you don’t need me. You don’t love me-”

“Then make me love you!” He snaps.

Her eyes widen and she gasps. He’s shocked her. He’s shocked them both. But he knows he meant it.

For the first time today he sees her falter. “I can’t… I don’t… you’ve never been in love with anyone. And you expect me to change that?”

“People can change, can’t they?” He asks. “I am a human being, Molly. I have changed. I changed after John became my friend. I changed before the Fall and after it and I changed after you.”

“Why does it have to stop there? Why can’t I fall in love if I want to? People fall in love all the time, don’t they? The media makes it out to be the easiest thing in the world if that’s what you want.”

Molly was fairly sure (all right, completely sure) she was crying and laughing at the same time. “Sherlock, love doesn’t work that way. It can’t just… happen.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“All right, it can, but not with you.”

“Is that a challenge?” He asks with a slight smile.

“You don’t even know what you’d be getting yourself into!” Molly tells him. “Babies mean late nights and fevers and nappies and teething and a million things you know nothing about!”

Sherlock nods. “Yes, it is terribly unfortunate that I am incapable of learning anything…”

Molly puts her hands on her hips and glares at him. “You’re mad, you know that? A right plonker.”  But then she is smiling and he thinks, he hopes, that is a good sign.

“I have been informed of that on more than one occasion,” he says solemnly.

She moves closer to him, her wide dark eyes searching his. “Sherlock, are you sure about this? I mean, that you want to try… this. With me.”

“Of course I’m sure. Who else would I want to try it with?” He asks in confusion.

She sighs. “OK. If you’re serious about this, I’ll stay. We’ll see how it goes.”

Sherlock releases the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He reaches out, slowly, tentatively, and draws Molly against him. He puts one arm around her waist. He places his hand on her stomach, fingers splaying out over the taut skin. He imagines the child inside her: imagines soft hair and wide eyes and a mind like a diamond and a giggle that he will secretly find charming.

“So... how do we do this?” Molly asks.

“We start by canceling your flight. Then Mycroft tells Bart’s to find that overeager fill-in a new position elsewhere so you can get your job back. He hates it there anyway so he’ll be glad to have something else. Then: maybe some dinner? Are you hungry? Of course you are: you’re pregnant. Are you experiencing cravings? Should we stop and get you some gherkins and ice cream first?”

Molly laughs. “Yes I’m hungry but no thank you on the gherkins and ice cream. I’d like a proper meal.”

“That can be arranged.” He presses a kiss to her lips, a gentle kiss that is more to seal their agreement than an attempt at romance. But his mouth ghosts over her cheek afterwards, making her shiver, and he smiles as the door opens just a little further, revealing a room with billowing yellow curtains and a fresh coat of white paint.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
